


trust

by dvntldr



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Careers (Hunger Games), Cashmere is a tsundere, F/M, Gen, Gloss is weird, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Multi, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-22 21:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18141902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvntldr/pseuds/dvntldr
Summary: cashmere, gloss & finnick: their shared backstoryaka they get semi-smashed





	trust

“Don’t see you in here often.” Finnick’s lips twitch upwards at the voice, glancing up agreeably.

 

“Gloss. Where’s Cash? Aren’t you two joined at the hip?” Rolling to his eyes, the District 1 Victor flicks his hand dismissively at his sister. The blonde’s kissing a young man who’s fondling her breasts rather openly in the middle of the bar.  “Ah. So it’s business, not pleasure?”

 

Gloss laughs darkly as he straddles the seat next to him, stealing the vodka bottle that sits in front of Finnick and taking a large swig of it. “When is it ever pleasure, honestly?”

 

Finnick snorts hollowly, toasting Gloss with a champagne glass. “Arguably, it could be the business of pleasure. Touché, though. If she needs a break, I can sit in for her.”

 

The other male eyes him curiously over the rim of his vodka. It’s well-known that Finnick, at the young age of 16, is already the favourite, the Capitol darling, with Enobaria and Cashmere as close seconds. If Finnick were to take over Cashmere’s client despite him not being the person said client had requested, well—it was the equivalent of searching for gold and finding diamonds; only the particularly stupid would say no. Still, one trait that all— _almost_ all, he thinks fondly as Annie’s face swims into view—Victors share is self-preservation; eventually, there’s a point in the arena when you either decide to lie down and die or kill to keep living, which is also why Gloss is questioning why Finnick would let himself be used for a night in his sister’s place. There’s a reason why good, truly good people never win the Games—besides his sweet Annie, of course.

 

“This is just a little make-out session, nothing too bad. Never thought I’d see the day you’d volunteer to be fucked, though. Should I start worrying that you’re gonna take a leap of faith or something?” Finnick shrugs as he sips from his champagne flute, unable to refute his statement.

 

“You tell me.” His companion rolls his eyes in disgust, waving a hand dismissively as he pulls out some bills and slaps them on the counter to request for another bottle.

 

“Just _once_ I wish you’d stop with all the enigmatic shit, Finnick. This ain’t the Capitol, you can be normal, for Christ’s sake...That bastard isn’t here.” Finnick’s face drains of colour momentarily as his eyes flick to the ceiling. Gloss can be brazen sometimes, occasionally even downright stupid, but to call Snow a bastard out loud...

 

“ _Gloss_.” Talk like that can get someone killed, especially since everywhere is bugged and nowhere is safe; Finnick’s relatively free from danger, it would be stupid of Snow to kill off the most desirable Victor he has in his possession. Gloss is mostly secure as well; with Cashmere as his sister, they’re the wonder twins that the Capitol adore, that draw in money with their matching good looks and persuasive skills. But while they might be safe, their families aren’t.

 

 _Annie_ …

 

Maybe Gloss sees the desperation and fear lurking behind his eyes, or maybe it’s the way he starts to anxiously pull out his comfort rope from his pocket; either way, he bites his lip in a grimace, reaching for Finnick apologetically. “ _Shit_. Finn, I’m sorry. Don’t—“

 

He lurches back like he’s been burned, hands working feverishly as they move on their own to form knot after knot; it’s the only part of him that’s moving, now. Gloss swears quietly under his breath, gets up and approaches Cashmere, who’s still chatting the same young man up. Finnick’s breathing-rate starts to pick up, his hands’ movements speeding up as well—his hands are used to the coarse rope, calloused as they are, but his wrists are less so and he hisses and drops the rope like it’s on fire as a red line appears across his wrist.

 

“Finnick?” He looks up, flinching as he does so; familiar turquoise eyes and golden curls come into view.

 

“Cash?” His voice shakes; he can’t help but feel embarrassed. He’s a _Victor_. He’s killed people, he’s survived the deadly arena and every attempt made by Snow to break his spirit so far—so why is he suddenly breaking down now? His eyes widen as she helps him off his chair and crouches to tug his discarded rope from under the bar counter.

 

“It’s okay, Finn. Gloss is a dick, you know that. Let’s get you home, yeah?” He nods weakly, suddenly too exhausted to argue; she leads him outside and hails a cab. Finnick sits at the end, with Cashmere in the middle and Gloss on the right. He leans his head against the window as the cab zigzags through the busy streets, pretending not to listen in on Cashmere as she scolds Gloss in a low tone.

 

“ _Okay_ , lighten up! I get it, you’re— _oww_ —that hurts Cash, stop it! _Ow_ , I’m sorry, okay?” He tries to stifle the quiet laughter that threatens to escape when she grabs her brother’s hand and begins to twist it backwards; a soft chuckle slips out and Cash is instantly tugging him closer to her, wrapping an arm around his shoulders without a word.

 

He and Cash have always had a complicated history; back in the days when he’d been a Victor fresh out of the arena, she’d been engaged to Caius, Snow’s own son, a man who’d specialised in ‘ _breaking_ _in_ ’ new victors. One of the terms of their forced marriage was that Caius wasn’t allowed to do that anymore, so when she’d come home and found her fiancé fucking a crying Finnick against the wall, she’d ended things straightaway. Nevertheless, she didn’t have the power to stop Caius, of course; Finnick had barely been able to hear her faint, rage-filled yells and the shattering of objects in the room next to his over the sound of his own screams. When he’d finished with Finnick hours later, she’d helped him into the bathroom and talked him through panic attacks, cleaned him up as best she could and let him cuddle with her in bed as he woke up over and over again throughout the night in a cold sweat due to nerve-wracking nightmares.

 

One thing he appreciated most about her was that she had never felt the need to sugarcoat anything. She hadn’t once lied to him about what his life would be like, had never given him any false promises of freedom or hope. Instead of filling his head with empty platitudes like _everything’s going to be alright_ and _it won’t hurt so much if you cooperate_ , she had taught him the things that mattered; how to use his body as a weapon, how to gain access to secrets that would tear the nation apart and learn about cataclysmic conspiracies of murder and betrayals that would have had Coriolanus Snow begging on his knees for mercy.

 

He’d walked into her home a Victor and came out a survivor. Without her, he would have had no chance at all; the Capitol, with all their innocent smiles and honest brutality, would have eaten him alive for tea.

 

“We’re here.” His eyes automatically skip past Cashmere and Gloss to peer up at the building in front of him.

 

“Cash, Gloss, hate to break it to you, but that isn’t where I live.” He says with a light smirk, trying to gather his composure. Gloss rolls his eyes and flicks him on the forehead with an amused look as Cashmere steers him inside the house.

 

“Cash told you she’d be taking you home. That suite in the Capitol you live in isn’t your _home,_ boy.” Finnick can feel himself flush. Why is he acting like this? If anyone besides them had decided to take him home without explicitly telling him that they were going to, he’d already be stripping and expecting instructions. He tries to reapply the Capitol mask, the seductive purr and lidded eyes and an invitation into his bed, but he finds that he just _can’t_. Maybe it’s because Cashmere and Gloss are basically his siblings by now—not that they haven’t fucked before; they’ve had clients who’d ordered all three of them and told them to have sex, as if their lives weren’t weirdly complicated enough—, maybe it’s because of all the times Cashmere has rubbed his back and soothed him as he threw up in the bathroom after days of clients using his body as they pleased, maybe it’s because of Gloss’ camaraderie and kind, easygoing nature that never fails to make him feel at home. No matter the reason, the fact remains that he feels safer with them than with anyone else.

 

His mouth opens and closes several times as he tries to find his words (he imagines he looks quite like a gaping fish); his slick tongue and witty one-liners seem to have abandoned him in his time of need. He gives up after a few more moments, lifting his trusting gaze to meet theirs. “Thank you.”

 

Gloss grins as Cashmere turns away—she hasn’t quite learned how to accept gratefulness—and tries to hide her smile, but the fleeting flash of her pleased expression that he catches is enough to pacify Finnick.

 

“Come to bed?” He asks softly, reaching out to them; Cashmere scoops him up like a child, Gloss laughing all the way to the bedroom at Finnick’s faux-pouty expression.

 

Some broken part of him mends, just a little bit; he guards it ferociously with the fervor of a madman. He won’t let anyone take this feeling away from him.

 

Extra:

 

Finnick turns a split-second after Katniss does; his inane reaction to yell at her to stop comes too late.

 

Her arrow sinks into Gloss’ temple.

 

Something calamitous is building up in his chest, and the feeling only intensifies when Cashmere receives an axe to the chest.

 

Somehow, the three of them lock gazes simultaneously, and memories flood Finnick’s entire system:

 

_Gloss singing out of tune as he bathes, Gloss cooking and setting off the fire alarm, Gloss apologising over and over for startling Finnick and causing him to burn himself by accident, Gloss hugging him as he cries, the comfortable warmth emanating from Gloss’ back pressed flush to his._

 

_Cashmere twirling in her gorgeous silk gown, Cashmere giving him a proud nod when he hits the bulleye with a knife, Cashmere rolling her eyes fondly as Finnick asks her to dance with him, Cashmere taking the noose from his white-knuckled grip and replacing it with her warm arms, Cashmere’s hair tickling his bare chest as she sleeps with her head pillowed on his chest._

 

There’s nothing he can do, he knows as he watches Gloss crumple to his knees and Cashmere stumble backwards from the force of the axe before dropping. Even if he turned traitor and killed the Mockingjay and her friends, it wouldn’t turn back the clock.

 

A spear comes at Peeta and he bats it away with his trident, letting his body go on autopilot; he can see the knife coming at him in slow-motion—it’s dodgeable, but his leg spasms and he takes it in his thigh.

 

Somehow, the physical pain can’t compare with what he’s feeling.

 

 _It’s okay_ , he thinks as he detachedly watches Brutus and Enobaria flee back into the woods. _It’s okay_.

 

 _He’s okay_.

 

(No, he’s not.)

**Author's Note:**

> welp,,, this sucked i’m sorry  
> they’re ooc as fuck i deserve death :’)  
> comments are my raison d’etre


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